Monday, July 04, 2005

Swimming Pools

Today was an interestingly good day. Cherish that. It won't happen again for a long time. I spent July 4th weekend with my brother and sister-in-law out in Freeport. Find a map. The best thing about going out there is the pool, seeing as I refused to enter any New York City public pool when I found out that the Mexicans were actually there to play, not to clean. Laugh out loud. Public pools are filth receptacles, capable of getting anyone as sick as they need to be to cut school or work the next day. I don't give a damn if chlorine is self-cleaning. You pee while I'm in the pool, I'm gonna rip your bladder out and beat you senseless with it.
We spent the better part of the afternoon in the backyard, swimming in the pool and barbecuing. I had more than just my share of ribs. And potato salad and coconut cake. But that's way besides the point. My personal rant for the day is this: why in the hell is it that the louder you scream "I can't swim!" the more eager people are to shove your head under the water? I can't tell you how many times I could just tell I was close to death. I finally understand just what Davey Jones' locker is because I saw it about four or five times. I mean, shouldn't the look of anguish on your face as you take your final breaths be enough to say, oh she really can't swim; or better yet, hey, let's pull her up. No no. Of course not. It's more fun to whirl around the non-swimming freak and make her want to jump out of the pool screaming like the two-year-old she just kicked in the face.
My brother and his brother-in-law (my sister-in-laws brother) began a rousing game of Marco Polo. I had just finished my eighth rib when my brother invited me in; I being the fool that I am agreed. Before I knew it, I was caught in the middle of what could only be described as the first ten minutes of Saving Private Ryan. Or the middle of Kill Bill, your choice. Here, I'll paint a mental picture for you. Imagine you, your body weighed down by an enormous amount of grilled red meat and Sierra Mist, being tossed about helplessly as you try to shout "Polo" and stay above water at the same time. And please remember, you've never swam a day in your life. You don't know anything about flotation except for the fact that your breasts can be used in the event of an emergency. Well, this was definitely an emergency and honey, I used em.
I floated my way back and forth acting as if I knew what I was doing, careful to keep my head above water and my feet on the pool floor. Then someone got the brilliant idea to tap you on the shoulder. This is very disorienting and your first instinct is to open your eyes. If you do that, you have to start your turn over, no matter how long you've been Marco. Oh joy. My brother kept shouting, hey over here! And like a dummy, I followed his voice. For someone who thinks all stupid people should be locked in a cage and sent to an indefinite mission to Mars, I think I can be pretty stupid sometimes. My brother can't swim any better than I can so his calling out to me was as good as the blind leading the blind. Or the swimless leading the swimless.It didn't help that there were close to a million kids in the pool, therefore slowing me down and gumming up the works. And then they act like you're supposed to catch them if they go under. Baby, I didn't birth you and I damn sure ain't divin after ya.
Sure I had a little bit of fun until I realized for the hundredth time that I can't swim and so this time, my luck ran out and I swallowed a mouthful of water. Highly chlorinated water. As I vomited over the side of the pool, I could hear what I thought were my comrades shouting cheerful laughter in my direction. Yes, please. Laugh it up. No I'm fine, I don't need a hand. Why, do I look like I freaking can't swim like I've been shouting at you pricks for the last two hours?I wonder if the YMCA is still giving lessons.
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Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take and may this song play all the way, through. And if it skip a beat, hit repeat, this the realest shit I ever wrote, this is me. If it skip a beat, hit repeat, This the realest shit I ever wrote, this is me. -Juelz Sanatana, This Is Me, What The Game's Been Missing